by Jane Juska
I did my best to comfort Mrs. Bennet on our journey homeward. “Now, now,” I murmured, “no one noticed, things can’t be that bad, it will all be forgotten by the morrow,” but she would have none of my patting or quiet assurances and remained frozen in silence, all light gone from her, a little sparrow huddled into the corner of the chaise. Since then, she has been as you saw her at the first of this diary entry. With one exception.
Late last week, in the late afternoon, she appeared downstairs in her nightdress but with her curls returned to their natural springiness along with some of the rosy colour in her cheeks. The sight of her filled me with hope. As I moved toward her, she did not turn and run, she did not cry out; instead, I believed she returned a bit of a smile. It was at that moment that a loud knock came at the door.
Surprised, I hastened to open it (no servant having showed herself). There stood Colonel Millar. “Good day,” he said. “I thought this might be the opportune time to talk about the enclosure laws that could very well—”
Mrs. Bennet’s face, drained of all colour, twisted itself into a prune. She screamed once and fell unconscious to the floor. The colonel made an apology and fled. With the help of Mrs. Rummidge, who heard the commotion from above and hastened down, we carried my poor Marianne up to bed, where she remains.
I am left to wonder who this woman is. She is not a wife, she is barely a mother to my children, she is not by any means the mistress of my house; and yet, something in me warms to her and wishes for her warmth in return. She is but a girl. Perhaps time will bring forth the woman. I would that it were sooner than later.
Ch. 17
July at Longbourn
Dear Sister,
I have let the whole of June escape and have barely the strength to resume my correspondence now in the sensuous languors of summer. I spend many afternoons, as I spend this one, sitting beneath the linden, listening to the murmurs of innumerable bees, their sound like distant music. Mr. Bennet comes by on occasion to amuse me with tales of farm life, as for instance, those regarding Tom, who delights in the warm weather.
“Well, now, Mrs. Bennet,” my husband said only minutes ago, attempting Tom’s country speech, “I finished my hayrick in most excellent fashion, and was able to cut all my hay in five days.” I would add that Tom is a most able-bodied farmer while my husband is not, and so, try as I will to pretend that I am entertained, my eyes and the downturn of my mouth give me away. I am not amused.
I pity my husband. It is not his fault that I am sad; after all, it is his heroics that saved me from total and complete humiliation before the entire county at the colonel’s ball. And he could not know the effect that Colonel Millar’s sudden appearance on our doorstep would have on me. But oh, Jane, picture me in my dressing gown, my hair awry, not covered by a cap, my feet unshod. I was barefoot! In the vestibule of my own home, there was I, mistress of Longbourn, looking for all the world like a madwoman unfit for human company, as indeed I was. What recourse did I have then but to faint dead away. Pretense was impossible, oblivion was not.
My contemplation in solitude has brought me to this: I must put away foolish notions of the colonel. I must fasten on my life as a wife and mother. I must set aside my daydreams and attend to my responsibilities. It is no less than my husband deserves. To be sure, he is not and never can be my heart’s desire. He can never replace my colonel in my affections. But he seems, for all that, a decent man who means no harm. I have not been worthy of him.
It is my misfortune to end this letter with the news that, once again, I am with child. It is no wonder that my gown split. Pray that I will deliver a son.
Yr sister,
Marianne
Ch. 18
Quae venit indigne poena dolenda venit.
“We are entitled to complain of a punishment that we have not deserved.”
—OVID
What is my sin? What wrong have I done, what crime have I committed to deserve the dull stares or, worse, the weeping that seems as if it would consume my wife? I have exhausted myself with searching for a sensible argument that would explain such behaviour, but none comes. I will leave her to her misery. Only she can heal herself. So I earnestly pray.
At the risk of seeming an unfeeling lout, I will add to my complaints one other: Mrs. Bennet is growing stouter by the day. And no wonder. The only company she seeks out is the cook’s and often I find her furtively cramming sweets into her mouth. Means she this balm to soothe her fevered brow? Another damnable perplexity.
Ch. 19
A Terrible Accident
Late at night, a terrible cry. I raced to her bedroom door, flung it open, and looked on in horror at the bedclothes red with blood. Marianne raised herself from the pillows and in a voice from the depths of hell said, “You have your son, and he is dead!”
I cannot go on. Forgive me.
Ch. 20
Mid-July at Longbourn
Dearest Jane,
You are the only one to whom I can express the anguish I feel over the death of my son. I share my grief with you as I trust you will share yours with me. The fine and honest man who was your husband is gone from you as is my little boy from me, and now you and I are alone. How fortunate you were to have had his good company for these past years. I hope and pray that his long illness prepared you for the end. Would that I had had even a little time to give my son life.
I write this from my bed. My writing desk was once a small table whose legs Mr. Bennet has cut down so as to make a tray which straddles my now empty and useless womb. Although it was our tenant Tom who did the carpentry, it was Mr. Bennet himself whose thoughtfulness made this letter possible. And I, shameful creature that I am, could not carry to term the child that would have perfected his happiness. I am of no worth.
I have not risen from this bed for many a day, almost fourteen now. I have no plans to do so. The grief of losing our son lies on me like a stone and renders me incapable of resuming household duties or the mothering of my two daughters. I have asked Mrs. Rummidge to keep them from me, for seeing them would serve to remind me that while they are full of life and in good spirits, their little brother lies beneath the earth. My first visit to the outside world, should there be a first visit, will be to the family cemetery next to our chapel, the chapel where my daughters were christened, the chapel you no doubt remember well, the chapel my little boy will never see.
I did attend the service which laid him to rest, but I remember little of it, only that Mr. Bennet held me upright once again and that my black veil hid me from view and from viewing. I doubt that I could have been comforted by your presence or by the ministrations of anyone. Even now my tears, unbidden, rush into my eyes and spill onto my cheeks; I am a torrent of grief. I have forbidden anyone to come near me, no one. I eat a little of what Cook fixes for me; I care not if I live or die. Mrs. Rummidge delivers to me a cup of tea every so often, laced with, I suspect, an infusion of laudanum, enough to stanch my tears and return me to the arms of Morpheus. I am grateful. His casket was so small.
It would not do for you to visit us now. I am too full of sorrow and would only burden you further with my grief. Until we meet, know that I share your grief for the loss of your dear husband. Grieving widows, grieving mothers, the world seems full of nothing else. By what right are our loved ones taken from us? I would curse the answer if ever the forces that live so beyond our powers would show themselves. Cowards all, to heap sorrow upon sorrow upon women too weak and ignorant to fight back. My tears are now of anger.
Yr sister,
Marianne
Ch. 21
Summer’s End
Dear Sister,
Mr. Bennet has insisted that I rouse myself and attend with him the autumn festival held each year in our village. At first, I refused his invitation, but then he caught my eye and I realized that grief was not mine alone. I do not believe that he has trimmed his whiskers o
r straightened his neck cloth or paid much attention at all to his general cleanliness. “Mr. Bennet,” I said, “you are odoriferous. Please avail yourself of the opportunity to bathe yourself.” I did not mean to sound so harsh, but he spoke not a word, just tucked his chin into his collar and started for the door. “Edward,” I said more softly, “thank you for this most agreeable little writing desk you have made for me.” He looked up shyly, and suddenly I could see the boy he once was.
“My pleasure, my dear,” he answered. He bowed slightly. “And now I shall leave you to your rest.”
“Don’t go quite yet,” I said. I patted the edge of the bed. “Sit with me here for a bit.”
I believe he feared I might have a change of heart, for he almost leapt across the room to do my bidding, and before either of us knew it, we were chatting as if we were a longtime married couple. “Tell me how the household is managing in my absence,” I said and added, “Not that the household ran all that smoothly when I was in charge. Oh, Edward, was I ever in charge? Tell me true.”
Good gracious, didn’t he smile, then turned earnest. “Well, my dear, you were new to housekeeping and to having so serious a charge over people who themselves were no great gift to the servant class. I’m not sure how they came to Longbourn or even who hired them.”
“It was my responsibility,” I answered. “I relied overly on Mrs. Rummidge’s recommendations. But worse, I paid little attention to how they carried out their duties or even if they carried them out at all. I shall endeavour to make some changes in that regard once I am back on my feet.” Without warning, I felt the tears begin. “Oh, Edward, I cannot forget the horror of that night and the loss of our infant son. I have wronged you.”
He took my hand. “Now, now, Marianne,” he said, “more of that another time. Please, just for now, dry your tears. I have brought you an invitation.” He rushed on. “The autumn festival we spoke about will be held in the village Sunday next. I thought that perhaps the two of us might wander down and enjoy the festivities of the day. We might even take our children. I believe that the appearance of our little family would gladden the hearts of many. It may please you to know that many have shared in your grief. Many have asked daily about your recovery, your health, and sent their good wishes to you. Mrs. Littleworth, for one, has called daily to enquire as to your progress. She appears to have a genuine fondness for you.”
All this took me by surprise, and I feared the return of tears. It never occurred to me that I was in the least an object of sympathy—curiosity perhaps, but not sympathy. Edward’s words touched me. “I shall do my best to make myself presentable, but I cannot promise to be as you or Mrs. Littleworth wishes. I may never be that woman, ever. But I will attend the festival on your arm. I accept your kind invitation.”
“The warm sun awaits you,” he said, “and with a happy heart, I take my leave.” He bowed and as he backed his way out the door, he smiled broadly. “I am happy to see that you are regaining your health,” he said. “And your powers of speech.”
Dear Jane, I do not look forward to a silly fair where people cavort in the sunshine and are happy. I do not want to go. But I must. It is time. This festival shall begin my penance. I did not utter a falsehood when I told Mr. Bennet that I had wronged him. I have lost his son and I have given him a daughter not his and I have disgraced him at the ball. Were he to face those truths, even one of them, he would have the right to toss me into the streets where some would say I belong. Not only that, dear sister, for although my dear child is gone now these three weeks, a weight remains on my spirit that time has not shaken off. Will it ever be thus? The effort is mine to commence. Pray for me.
Marianne
Ch. 22
In Which We Regain Respectability and Coincidence Threatens
Abducendus etiam non nunquam animus est ad alia studia, sollicitudines, curas, negotia; loci denique mutatione, tanquam aegroti non convalescentes saepe curandus est.
“The mind is sometimes to be diverted to other studies . . . by change of place, as sick persons who do not recover are ordered change of air.”
—CICERO
I find September a most agreeable month, the end of the gentleness of summer yet before the cruelties of winter begin. It celebrates the end of harvest, which, according to Tom, was most successful despite the drought that threatened in July. Today the paths of the village are lined with farm families offering their late-summer wares: apples firm and rosy, walnuts, the gourds of pumpkin and squash. I was heartened to see Cook amongst the crowd weighing apples and squashes in her hands, eyeing beets and radishes and carrots. Emily, the scullery maid, followed along behind her, stumbling as Cook filled her basket with provisions for the months to come. I smiled, as did Mrs. Bennet, at Cook’s playing the grand lady, nose in the air, skirts billowing as she strode along the paths, arms free of baskets, her servant, the beast of burden, trailing behind.
“My good man,” we heard her say to a vendor, “my perusals have been such that your cabbages win over all. Be so good as to fill my servant’s basket with several of those and an armful of your onions as well. Summer squash still firm, is it?” “But Mrs. Waters,” Emily complained, “I cannot carry so heavy a load.” “You are paid to do my bidding,” Cook sniffed. “And when will that be?” murmured Emily.
“O husband,” said Mrs. Bennet, “oughtn’t we to intervene? Emily is quite correct.”
Startled by the sound of “husband,” I replied, “They will do quite well without us. Simply nod as we walk by.” I was pleased to see Cook attending to foodstuffs here. There has been a change in the servants that seemed to begin with Mrs. Bennet’s misfortune. They have expressed concern that seems genuine and have hurried about their chores without the scolding of Mrs. Rummidge, in itself an ear-splitting unpleasantness.
We passed many of our neighbours as we strolled, I pushing Jane and Elizabeth in their carriage, Mrs. Bennet close by my side. With each pause and exchange of pleasantries, Elizabeth attempted to climb out of the perambulator. We were not in the least surprised. Each day she seems more determined to meet life on her own terms. Sitting in a carriage is not one of them. Jane, on the other hand, is quite content to smile up at those who chuck her under the chin and google silly words at her. Elizabeth is close to perfecting a scowl. The contrast in their characters was no more in evidence than when Mr. and Mrs. Littleworth stopped to bid welcome to us all. As Mr. Littleworth made buzzing noises and waggled his finger ever closer to the children, Jane gurgled her delight. Elizabeth tried to beat his finger away with her tiny fists and pinched her little face into a red ball of fury. Fortunately, Mrs. Littleworth interceded and reached for his finger before it reached Elizabeth’s nose. “Careful, my dear. This one shows signs of willfulness,” she said approvingly.
Mrs. Bennet looked on. For too long she has refused the company of her children and so it was good to see that their winning ways—Jane’s at any rate—were pleasing to her. She said to Mrs. Littleworth, “My husband has told me of your kindness during my recent illness. Allow me to offer my deepest gratitude.”
“Well, my dear,” Mrs. Littleworth said, “tragedy befalls us one and all”—here I could swear she gestured toward Mr. Littleworth—“and it has come to you far too early. I have been giving some thought as to how we might brighten your days. I shall call on you soon. Good day for now.”
And off they went, Mr. Littleworth mumbling something about being late for tea.
And then, to my surprise, along came Colonel Millar, his beautiful sister at his side. I did not recollect that he was such a tall person, nor she. “Good afternoon,” the colonel said. His sister nodded.
“Good afternoon to you,” I answered. “I would not have expected to see you here in this month of autumn. London must beckon.”
Miss Millar nodded in agreement and the colonel said, “We are savouring our final days in the country before the start of the season. Short
ly, we will ready ourselves during a few weeks in Bath. Then it’s off to London.”
“Yes,” said the beauteous Miss Millar. “Once the season is upon us we barely have time for breath. Parties and banquets and balls, you know, each more splendid than the one before.” She smiled down from her considerable height at Mrs. Bennet. “I have warned my dressmaker that her days and nights belong to me. It would be most unfortunate should a gown separate from itself during the dancing, which I find utterly exhausting but scintillating nonetheless. Don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Bennet grew pale.
That cursed woman. How dare she so much as suggest knowledge of the catastrophe that befell us at Northfield those long months ago!